


Sayonara! (Please don't go.)

by godofwine



Category: History Boys (2006)
Genre: M/M, Oxford, what is feelings?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 16:23:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1096070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godofwine/pseuds/godofwine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Dakin and Irwin are still such boys, sigh.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sayonara! (Please don't go.)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kitmarlowed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitmarlowed/gifts).



> My dearest amaniacalherbtells,
> 
> I alas forgot the deadline and saw an admin message that made me think I accidentally defaulted. And then I saw another message that made me realize I hadn't! So I sincerely apologize for how rushed and disjointed this turned out, but I hope you enjoy it a bit nonetheless. <3
> 
> Also, I fail at emotions more than even Dakin fails at emotions so my solution is to never ever talk about them. /o\
> 
> Also also, despite spending some time abroad making use of them, I know next to nothing of the British university system. Which is still more than most Americans but not enough to make this story factually accurate I'll wager. Sorry!

*

When Dakin first sees Irwin again, Irwin isn't wearing his glasses. The incongruity throws him, and for a moment, Dakin had thought that this really must be a whole new world, past in the past, and only the future before them.

But then Irwin had bowed his head, smiled his rueful little smile, finished wiping his glasses and put them back on and in the process became the same old exciting, inconsistent, slightly pathetic Irwin again.

The past is never really the past, change of scenery be damned. As a student of history, he should really know better, Dakin thinks.

*

"It doesn't really fit with your curriculum," his tutor says when he first suggests taking Monastic Farming of the Tudor Period, "but I trust your judgment."

"Thank you sir," he says back, and, "It's good to have a little diversity." He thinks about winking and decides it's too heavy handed.

His tutor still blushes prettily under his splattering of freckles.

Irwin's class meets at 3:00 on a Tuesday afternoon, which fits in well with Dakin's schedule. The first day, there's a crowd of students waiting for Irwin after and Irwin has a meeting on the second.

When the third class ends, Dakin lingers, waits out the last of the stragglers.

"Dakin. I didn't expect you to be in this class," Irwin says.  His tone is even, unsurprised.

"Didn't you, sir?" Dakin says back.

But Irwin doesn't rise to the bait. Instead, he talks about the class, about Oxford, about the other boys. His eyes stay warm, uncomplicated, free of any lingering nostalgia for bygone euphemisms.

Afterwards, Dakin finds himself thinking, _boring,_ and feels uncomfortably betrayed.

*

After Cutler's, Dakin's had figured that the most truthful thing about Irwin was his smile. The rest of him might be caught about in the boisterous energy of the great game that was exams preparation, but Irwin's smile was, while sardonic, always seemingly slightly apologetic. As if his mouth hadn't quite caught up to the Oxford lie and was sorry for being so assuming.

Despite himself, Dakin's always liked Irwin's smile.

*

Dakin likes to take an aisle seat near front. Close enough to be a part of the action when he wanted but still far enough on the outskirts to not seem too eager.

Irwin's class is empty enough that he has a good selection. The book deal was good enough to get him a lecturer's spot but not enough to overcome the blandness of the topic.

Without the pressure of exams and success, Irwin's arguments somehow get sneakier. More finesse, less honing of technique.

The class is fun, engaging. Wholly Irwin through and through.

Irwin's eyes dance around the room, settles just long enough to drive home the point before moving on.  There is no serendipitous meeting of gazes.

In the third week, Dakin moves his seat to third row center. If Irwin notices, he doesn't react.

*

Once, Dakin had, legitimately, forgotten his book bag in Irwin's classroom and had had to go back some twenty minutes later.

There had still been a student there when he looked in through the door window, perched casually at the edge of one of the front row desks.

It could have been a Posner-like chat rather than akin to his own after-school sessions with Irwin. But the other boy was laughing when he looked, and that made him doubtful that it was anything like Posner at all.

He hadn't hesitated before going in. When he apologized, Irwin had said, "You're not interrupting, let me walk you out," and, "There's nothing else you needed, right Cliff?"

It had felt good when Irwin looked relieved instead of embarrassed.

*

After Cutler's, after _Hector_ , Dakin had understood more clearly than ever the utter stupidity of not going after what you wanted. Hector had died unfulfilled, and while the poetry and the French had already disintegrated to mere snippets, Irwin's lessons lingered, still useful for the debates of university. A poignant point for a student of history, he thinks.

Oxford is good for him. Oxford is big and wealthy and remarkably associative.  He's had five girlfriends since coming here, all gorgeous and sophisticated and smart. Good preparation for his gorgeous, sophisticated, smart wife someday and, in all likelihood, his gorgeous, sophisticated, smart mistress, he thinks.

The point, if there is one to be made, is that he's not afraid of wanting Irwin. It's only that he's not sure there's anything to want.

*

After the last class is over, Irwin walks up to him as he's leaving.

"I hoped you enjoyed the class," Irwin says, offering his hand to be shaken.

"Always a pleasure, sir," Dakin says.

Irwin's hands are warm and thin, a shape that Dakin has managed not to forget.

*

It takes twenty minutes to bike to Irwin's house, address charmed out of the administrative assistant some two months earlier. The outside is neat without looking groomed.

Underneath his baggy clothes, Irwin is meatier than Dakin had imagined. When they kiss, Dakin clenches surprisingly firm biceps.

Irwin's lips taste like tea and his cock tastes like salt and not much else. When Irwin pushes into him for the first time, Dakin has to close his eyes.

*

"I didn't miss you, you know," Dakin says.

"Oh?"

Irwin still smokes, which is good because Dakin desperately needs a cigarette and he hates to smoke alone.  He's cut back himself, but sex always leaves him with a craving.

"I missed your classes, but not you exactly," he says.

Irwin looks up at him through lowered eyelashes. "Is this a warning not to get sentimental?"

Irwin is half-wrapped in the quilt, one pale shoulder unashamedly bare.

Irwin's bed is narrow but not lumpy. It leaves their legs pressed close against each other's.

"I rather think it's a challenge," Dakin says and grins.

*

Irwin's scheduled to leave on the next day's afternoon train.

There had been boxes scattered around the house. At the time, Dakin had assumed Irwin had never bothered to unpack.

*

After the Michaelmas term, Dakin's classes are all easy rather than interesting.  He has a good job offer lined up; it's practical instead of cowardly he decides.

He finds himself thinking about Irwin. About the paleness of the hairs on Irwin's stomach or the writing callus on Irwin's middle finger that had rubbed not uncomfortably against his skin. Things he knows now about Irwin that he hadn't imagined knowing even when he had brought offers of blowjobs to the table.

It should have a period, the sex. A conclusion, an ending to a childhood crush. Instead, it had felt like another dangling subjective that Irwin didn't quite have the nerve to answer.

"This is stupid," he says, aloud, despite the silliness of talking to an empty room.

*

Dakin liked ceremonies before Oxford, but Oxford's had that extra pomp that Sheffield could never match.

It's cloudy on the day of his graduation but it doesn't rain.

He finds Irwin at the bar, already waiting.

"I'm glad you came," Irwin says.

"Well, you have to admit, your note was intriguing," Dakin says, sitting down.

"Was it?"

It wasn't, but it was from Irwin and so it was. "In context, after five months-"

"Four and a half."

"- four and a half months, but who's counting, sure, it was certainly curious."

Irwin's ordered a beer. His fingers fidget with the edge of the label nervously.

"How was the ceremony?" he says. "Did you like any of the speeches?"

Irwin's hair has grown a little since Dakin last saw him, his face a little more gaunt.

Dakin doesn't know what he's doing here. He can't imagine why he'd been excited, why he'd bothered coming at all.

"It was great," he says standing,"and you know, actually I have to be getting back to my mates. Not that this hasn't been illuminating."

Irwin's hands stop moving. "Look, I just wanted to say-“ He hesistates but continues, “That is, I wanted to tell you: challenge accepted."

"Sir?"

For the first time, Irwin is looking straight at him. "You're not a student anymore. Don't you think it's time you call me Tom?"

Dakin remembers the Irwin of Cutler's, he remembers the Irwin of Hector's shadow. At Oxford, it had seemed very far away.

"Is that what was bothering you? Still?" he says.

"I've asked you out to a drink, haven't I?" Irwin says back, sounding chagrined.

"I'm not sure I should say yes, _Tom_."

Irwin smiles. "I think you will."

"Maybe," Dakin says and sits down.

*


End file.
